Why Sam Winchester Doesn't Cook
by jublke
Summary: The death of one of John Winchester's friends leads to panic for one brother and the revelation of a childhood secret. (Trigger warnings for childhood sexual abuse and PTSD, but nothing graphic). One-shot for now.


Not mine, don't own - except for the Toreros and I don't want them. For once, Sam and Dean might be relieved. My sincere apologies to Sammy for this one.

My thanks to Fanpire101 for beta-reading. Any remaining mistakes are mine.

Rated M for subject matter (childhood sexual abuse and PTSD) and because I couldn't get the boys through this without swearing. One-shot for now.

Cross-posted at _Archive of Our Own_.

* * *

Dean dropped his green army duffel on the wooden floor of the bunker's library with a thud. Smoothing out the wrinkles in his black suit, he furrowed his brows at his brother.

Sam was cocooned in a patchwork quilt, sprawled over a chair that was far too small for his gigantor frame. He looked like he had just rolled out of bed. Dean could have sworn that the faded hoodie his brother was currently stretching out of shape was a very old one of his. Sam had completed his look with light grey sweatpants and thick woolen socks. Definitely not funerary attire.

"You comin' or what?" Dean snapped, feeling pinched and tight in his formal wear. "We don't have all day, Sam. Funeral is at five. Then we can hit the road for that case you told me about."

Sam spoke from behind the book he was reading. "You go on ahead, Dean," he replied, voice artificially light. "I'm gonna stay here and catalogue our reference materials." He turned a page.

Dean frowned. Even for Sam, this was a lame excuse. The bunker had so much reference material you could spend your whole life trying to sort it out. One day here or there would hardly make a dent. "If this is about your hair ..."

Sam lowered the book to reveal a striking streak of neon green running through his otherwise chestnut locks. "It's not about my hair," he sighed, making eye contact with his brother. "Although I promise to get you back for that." Sam patted down his mane self-consciously with the hand not holding up the book. "I just ... don't feel like it today." Sam spoke in a soft voice before disappearing behind the hardback again.

Dean rolled his eyes and stormed over. "Get over yourself, Sammy," he decreed, yanking the book away from his brother and tossing it into a crumpled heap on the nearest table. Sam glared at him. "A funeral isn't about you. It's about the person who died." He tried to catch Sam's eyes, but his brother riveted his gaze to the floor. "Stan Torero was one of Dad's best friends when we were kids. Remember that summer with all those steak dinners and homemade cakes? You were such a little bitch too, always whining about being left behind while Dad taught me to hunt. Mrs. Torero spent all her free time trying to cheer you up by teaching you how to cook, but you didn't learn a damn thing. Set off the fire alarm a few times though." Dean chuckled at the memory before his voice turned serious. "Mrs. Torero asked us to be there for her, Sam. She needs us."

Dean noticed his brother's flinch at the words. _Maybe he's finally getting the message_ , he thought.

"I'm not going."

 _Or maybe not._

Sam jutted his chin out like he was five and collapsed in on himself, pulling his legs up and wrapping his long arms around his knees. "And you can't make me, Dean," he added, petulantly.

Dean folded his arms and frowned as he studied his big little brother. "You're acting really weird, even for you." He threw a hand across his sibling's forehead - cold and clammy - before wiping it on his jeans. "You don't feel hot."

The younger man looked up through his lashes and gave him a patented Sam Winchester Bitch Face. Blinking his eyes, he took a deep breath before speaking. "I'm fine, Dean. I just ... don't ... feel like going." His brother dropped his gaze, unable to sustain eye contact.

Dean chewed his lower lip, anger replaced by a rapidly rising sense of dread. _What's going on here? Is Sam sick? Hurt? What's he keeping from me now?_

Something intangible gnawed at Dean as he watched his little brother worm his way back under the blanket, and a knot of worry began to tangle the muscles near the base of his neck. The sensation wasn't unfamiliar - there were many things in Dean Winchester's life that caused him anxiety. But seldom, if ever, did these feelings directly originate from Sam. Dean tended to worry about Sam; that was normal, it felt right. But rarely did Sam worry himself to the extent that Dean also felt it physically. Tension had to be radiating from his brother in waves before it could amplify Dean's natural tendency to fret.

His brother peeked one hazel eye out from beneath the blanket. "You need to get going, Dean."

Dean shook his head. "'m not leavin' you here when you're like this."

"I'll get Cas to stay with me."

The reply was so unexpected that Dean felt his heart skip. Sam should have argued that point, should have shooed him out the door with reassurances that things were fine.

"Then I'm really not leavin' you." Dean dropped into a chair next to his brother. "You ain't thinkin' straight."

Sam abruptly sat up and threw the blanket off his head. "Dean. I'm fine. You need to go."

The older hunter raised his eyebrows. "Glad to hear you're fine, Sammy." He locked eyes with his brother. "Now you've got no excuse not to come with me."

He watched a shudder ripple across the other man. "I can't go, Dean. I'm sorry." Sam looked away.

Dean's big brother radar was pinging like an EMF meter locked on a particularly vengeful spirit. But he had to go to this funeral. Stan Torero had been one of Dad's oldest friends, and, frankly, John hadn't managed to keep that many. He knew what Dad would want them to do. Dean glanced at the nearest clock.

"We gotta leave here in the next fifteen. C'mon, you can rest in the car. I'll help you get your bag packed." He reached out to Sam.

His brother crossed his arms and refused to acknowledge Dean's outstretched hand. "Dean, I already told you. I can't go."

"Well, what do you want me to tell the family then, huh, Sam? John's boys couldn't be bothered to show up because they didn't feel like it? What'm I supposed to say to Mrs. Torero when she asks about you?"

Sam leapt up to face Dean, eyes wild. "Tell that bitch to fuck off and die, Dean! I am not going back there! You can't make me!"

Dean saw raw panic in Sam's eyes before his brother covered his face with one gigantic hand and dropped back onto the chair, wrapping his other arm around his waist. "I think I'm gonna be sick," Sam mumbled.

Dean grabbed the nearest waste basket and tucked it between Sam's legs. "It's okay, Sammy." He patted his brother's thigh.

"Don't touch me!" Sam hissed, jerking away from the contact. His voice shook so much that Dean found himself trembling in tandem.

 _What the hell?_

He ventured a gaze at his baby brother, who was now quaking under the blanket. Sam's cheeks were pale beneath a curtain of sweaty hair. He had the quilt wrapped around himself like a blanket of armor, if such things existed. Dean couldn't see the tears, but he could hear his brother's sniffs.

Dean squashed down his own worries and spoke in a soft voice. "Sammy ..."

"Don't say it, Dean. Don't say it was a long time ago and I should just forget about it. 'Cause I don't wanna hear it."

"What?" The word was out of Dean's mouth before he had time to process what Sam was trying to tell him. "I wasn't gonna say that, but okay." There were so many things that Dean wanted to ask right now, but Sam was talking and Dean knew that if he made the wrong move, his brother would clam back up.

"She ... she made me touch her, Dean ... that whole summer ... I ... I didn't want to." Sam was clearly fighting tears now, still beneath the blanket, still not looking at Dean. "She came on to me whenever you guys left ... I know ... I know I should have pushed her away ... but ... I didn't know what to do! I froze. I can't ..." His brother's voice devolved into hiccupping, stuttered breaths.

 _Oh, shit._ Dean fought the urge to argue with his brother, beating back the fervent desire to yell at Sam that he had to have been mistaken, this couldn't have happened. _Because if this happened, if Sam was hurt like this, then I failed as a big brother ..._

A loud sniff from the blanket broke Dean out of his self-recriminations. He shuddered and blew out a breath. _I need to pull my crap together._

Dean swiped at his own eyes before standing up from the chair and dropping into a squat by his brother's side. "Sammy," he tried, voice faltering as he fumbled for the right words, praying to Cas that he got them right, "it wasn't your fault. You didn't do anything wrong."

"I ... I don't wanna talk about it any more, De'." His brother hadn't used that nickname in years, and Dean was left wondering at the exact age of the broken man before him. "'m tired." The words were slurred. Sam huddled deep into the quilt and began to rock back and forth.

Dean fought warring urges. _Screw the funeral, I want to find Angie Torero and her damn chocolate layer cakes and stick a knife in her back. But I can't leave Sam when he's like this._

Dean sat down on the floor next to Sam's chair, working through his shattered thoughts. He felt sick and shaky himself. _How could this have happened? Why didn't I know? How did I let this happen?_ Familiar waves of self-loathing washed over Dean, and he wallowed and floundered for a long time before pulling himself back together in stages.

 _For Sammy. I've got to be here for Sammy. I screwed up but good before but it won't happen again. He's not gonna go through this alone a second time._

Dean thought about the best way to treat Sam. In the end, only one course of action presented itself: triage, the same as after any battle. No matter that this one had been waged long ago; it was now a war of the mind.

"Let's get you into bed, kiddo." Dean stood up first, then tried to gently help Sam to his feet, careful not to make any sudden movements. Once his brother was upright, Dean asked, "You wanna watch movies in my room or yours?"

He studied a lone tear as it trailed down Sam's cheek. His brother stood stiffly, clutching the quilt around him like a shawl. Sam shrugged.

"My room it is, then." Dean wrapped his arm around Sam's waist and steered his brother down the hall. Sam wasn't exactly catatonic, but he wasn't all there either. Dean decided to treat this the way he would any other field injury: rest, fluids, pain meds, and healthy doses of TLC. He would deal with Angie Torero later.

* * *

Author's note: If reading this was triggering for you, please reach out and talk to someone you trust. ❤️ Always keep fighting!


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